Lucky

Cocooned by Mohsin Shafi. Image Courtesy of the Artist.

By Josh Rank

They knew me at the liquor store on the corner. My order was always sitting on the counter by the time I reached the front of the line. Five numbers, the same every week, on one ticket. It wasn’t much but at least it didn’t come in a bottle. It never occurred to me that my numbers would actually match the ones on the little ping pong balls on the television towards the end of the news, so when it finally happened, it took a minute for me to believe it.

34 million dollars.

My chest felt like it disappeared.

Falling into a sinkhole, being struck by a meteor, stray bullets, cars running up onto sidewalks, all of it not only seemed possible, but probable.

Ever since Jacob’s mom died a couple years before, things had been tough. People say not to include finances when assessing your level of happiness but try telling a child that he has to wear his clothes until they disintegrate. See if he understands that being sad is a state of mind. He’s only seven but school is tough. It doesn’t take long before the other kids pounce on a weak classmate. And there was nothing that hurt me more than thinking about Jacob being pushed around just because his mother died in a car accident.

But the ticket in my hand nullified that worry. I was on the couch, Jacob had gone to bed, and I tried still my thoughts long enough to comprehend my new reality. People might think I would run into my son’s bedroom, shouting and hugging. Possibly saying something along the lines of, “All of our worries are gone!” But that wasn’t what happened. My heart kept its rapid pace but from fear, not excitement. I had proven to myself that even though the odds of winning are somewhere around one in two­-hundred million, it was possible to do it. Sure, we all know somewhere in the back of our mind that someone has to win, someone has to hit those tiny odds, but that’s usually an abstract concept like when we think of how much water is on the earth. There’s a lot. An unfathomable amount. But we don’t actually understand the full weight of the answer. And now, as I sat on my couch unable to move, I understood the odds. I understood that anybody could be the lucky one out of a billion and instead of feeling empowered, I was horrified.

Falling into a sinkhole, being struck by a meteor, stray bullets, cars running up onto sidewalks, all of it not only seemed possible, but probable. I figured my lucky streak didn’t only apply to positive outcomes. What’s stopping my luck from hitting the 1 to 280,000 odds of being struck by lightning?

I turned out the lights and TV and walked into my bedroom. I put the ticket into my desk drawer and pulled out my wife’s wedding ring. My brother had tried to convince me to bury her with it, that perhaps it would act as a means of closure, but I just couldn’t do it. I walked to the bed where I kneeled down and held the ring between by hands.

“You’re never going to believe what happened tonight,” I quietly mumbled. “Jacob’s schooling, his food and clothes, shit everything he could ever want has been paid for with a stupid lottery ticket. Remember how you told me they were a waste of time?” We used to have tiny arguments about the five dollars a week I’d spend on the lottery. She said it was a waste of money. I told her I was paying for the hope.

“What’s weird is, I should be dancing down the street but I don’t want to risk being hit by a car or mugged and shot or arrested or…” I let myself trail off because I knew how stupid it was. I kissed the ring and returned it to my desk drawer beside the winning ticket. The bed sheets were cool but it wouldn’t be long before my body heat warmed them up. I turned out the light.

My alarm went off at 6:30 the next morning but I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t awarded the luxury. Instead, I listened to the sounds outside and imagined each possible disaster throughout the night. I silenced the alarm and pushed myself out of bed to make breakfast. I knocked on Jacob’s door as I passed it and walked into the kitchen to make some eggs. I flipped on the gas stove and stared at the flames. I saw explosions and burned flesh. Fire alarms rang in my ears over the screams of people trapped behind locked doors. Phantom smoke filled my nostrils. I turned off the heat and got out a couple of bowls for cereal.

We eventually made it out the door and into the car. I pulled out of the driveway and gasped when I saw the traffic at the end of the street. Cars zoomed by in both directions. The fact that it doesn’t take more than a slight turn of the wheel to create an orphan wrapped itself around my chest tighter than the seat belt. I slowly pulled into traffic.

“Do you know what ‘luck’ is?” I asked.

Jacob turned his head and shrugged. “Isn’t it like something that helps us?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s the idea.” I wanted to tell him how it could apply to more than just lottery tickets and raffles but that seemed to be a little too much to lay on a kid on the way to second grade.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What were you doing last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you talking but I didn’t hear anybody talking back.”

“Oh that.” I scrambled for a lie. Mentioning his mom would only make him sulk for the rest of the day. I opted for redirection. “We, uh, we got some good luck last night, bud.”

“We did?”

“Yeah we did.” It had been a while since I could give him some good news. It helped me believe it was good, too, even though I knew it wasn’t. I was lying to myself and I knew it but it relieved the tension for a moment and I welcomed the reprieve. My answers were vague enough for him not to pursue it any further and a little while later, we arrived at the school.

“Alright bud, you be good.”

“Okay.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek before hopping out of the car. I waited until he walked through the doors of the school before I pulled away from the curb. Jacob will be safe in there. Won’t he? Yes, of course he will.

Going to work wasn’t an option. I drove home with both hands on the wheel and my eyes firmly focused on the road until I was able to park and turn off my car. I went inside, locked the door behind myself, and walked into the bedroom. I opened the dresser drawer and took out the lottery ticket to check the numbers. I did a quick internet search and sighed. There was no avoiding it: I was lucky.

“The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet…” By Hawa Jande Golakai.

“It’s important to bring this devastatingly misogynist and sexist culture into the drawing rooms of society, supplanting the ever permanent discussions of politics and religious discourse, two themes sewn into the lifeblood of Pakistan. How we treat women and how they are perceived in society are sadly closely intertwined with how they see themselves. We must teach young girls the power of ambition, something they have in droves as children – ask any five-year-old girl what she wants to be and I doubt you’ll get “housewife” as an answer. These are protocols we imprint on them as they grow older, reminding them to never dip a toe out “too far”. ” ~ Maryam Piracha, ‘Don't Cry Like A Girl, Be A (Wo)man’

“It is difficult, when you are not part of a community, to see what happens within it. It may also be extremely difficult to come out of a community and reveal truths about how you’ve been mistreated due to your sexual identity. The struggle for social acceptance is a long, hard road, but it is not something that can be accomplished in isolation by the victimized. Rather, the instigators need to pause and rethink why they pour such hate on their fellow human beings. We might think that something is just a phase, and perhaps for a minority it is. For the rest, it is a gift we are cursing them for.” ~ Aaron Grierson, ‘Not Just A Phase’

“When seemingly decent people make jokes linking masculinity, dominance and superiority to the vile act of rape, and express pride over it, they don’t realize that the language they are using not only trivializes the trauma, horror and pain of rape victims and survivors, but also makes them culpable in promoting rape culture. In fact, it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women in society.” ~ Sana Fatima Hussain, ‘Talking Gender’

Over the last few months, the magazine has ceased core publishing operations while we reevaluate our direction and vision. We will be back soon–the work TMS does is too important for us to drift silently into the night–but it will take some time.

But while we’re taking a break to restrategize, bookmark this page… we hope to see you on the other side!